The Deflowered Detective
by Winter Winks 221
Summary: *WARNINGS FOR RAPE* Sherlock is raped by a wanted female rapist whilst out on a case, and during his recovery meets a certain Army doctor recently returned from Afghanistan...Will he ever overcome his inner demons and fall in love with John?
1. Dark Discoveries

A/N: So, before anyone sinks their teeth into this, I just want to warn you all that this story contains mentions rape. Yes, it contains a male character raped by a female OC, who I shall despise forevermore. Be warned.

...

"Sherlock! SHERLOCK!"

Lestrade rubs his forehead in dismay- that self-consulting, trench coat enrobed fool has taken it upon himself to go and find the serial killer/psychopath/suspected molester and rapist they had been hunting down for a week. Sherlock had traced her to a cemetery in the dead of night, and ran off before Lestrade could orchestrate a plan.

Flashing his torch round frantically, the DI hopes that his friend texts, calls-hell- shouts out and away their location- anything! He's too worried that something will happen.

Stumbling and cursing, he soon realises that he has lost Donovan and Anderson, as well as the rest of his team.

Great. Even if they were idiots a lot of the time, as Sherlock correctly pointed out on an almost daily basis, he would still appreciate some back up against a woman who is fully psychopathic with a fifteen page criminal record of killings and sexual offences.

Suddenly, just as he leans on a derelict tombstone for some support after tripping and stumbling –again- on his ankle, he hears a blood-curdling, honest to God scream, full of terror and fear than he's ever heard in his many years in the police force.

"Shit," He mutters, and breaks into a run. "SHERLOCK!" He yells, "I'm comin', mate!"

He continues running, not caring about the possibility of an ankle break- he's only concerned with finding and saving Sherlock from whatever evil has hold of him.

"SHERLOCK- WHERE ARE YOU?!"

Another scream, weaker this time, rings from an old mausoleum right up the back. Feeling dread for his friend, the Detective Inspector charges towards the door, which is shut tightly and refusing to budge from its hold.

"Crap." He swears again. "I'm comin', Sherlock!"

He continues to try and push the door open, but no luck. Sensing things are getting desperate: he jams his hand into his pocket and fishes out his gun, which treacherously attempts to slide out of his fingers like an eel as he aims the weapon at the lock of the door.

He swiftly pulls the trigger without a second thought, praying that he wouldn't have to lay Sherlock to rest in the cemetery here- the bugger was growing on him, despite his maddening, swaggering arrogance and ice cold heart.

The bullet hits the lock, and there is a loud metallic shriek in a chilling, discordant harmony with Sherlock's own screams but the DI just shoulders the door open, and what he sees chills him to the bone.

Sherlock is lying there, sobbing grievously. His clothes from the waist down are ripped away, leaving him with no decency. The man is shaking, and his pale face is streaked with snot, tears and blood- streaming from his nose, not his head, thank goodness.

And not a trace of his attacker.

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade breathes. Thinking quickly, he radios for backup, ordering them to keep their eyes open, barking commands to the inept Anderson, before kneeling on the dirty floor of the tomb and yanking off his jacket in order to cover the consulting detective's exposed crotch, feeling great compassion for the man who had been reduced to nothing.

She will pay hell for this once he catches her, he swears, as he tries to comfort the currently demoralised and forever deflowered Sherlock.

...

Author's Notes: So, sorry this is a bit short, but I hope you enjoyed this story. There will be longer chapters on Sherlock's recovery, and I'm attempting to write Johnlock, so I hope this goes well! And I hope I have not offended or triggered anyone with this story. If so, then I apologise in advance.

And last but not least, I'd like to thank I'm Nova for beta- reading this for me and ensuring that this is relatively presentable! Thank you, my friend!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to BBC.

Winter Winks 221


	2. Cry in the Night

Sherlock remains on the ground inside the tomb- unable to move or stand up. His shoulders were tense with fear and trepidation as Lestrade knelt beside him.

"Donovan, call a bloody ambulance!" He roars over his shoulder, looking back to find her digging out her mobile from the pocket in her jeans.

"O-on it, sir," She replies shakily, dialing 911 and pressing it to her ear. "Hello? Sargent Donovan here, requesting an ambulance. Fr- Sherlock Holmes was just raped by a pursued suspect. The address is…"

Lestrade hears her voice fade into the distance, before he looks back to Sherlock, still staring at the ground.

"Listen, mate, I'm sorry this happened to you," He says awkwardly, cursing his poor choice of words. He was used to assisting rape victims; but they were all strangers; innocent people he was sworn to protect. Here was a friend- or just a bloody annoying acquaintance, whatever their relationship was- broken

' _Fucking hell, what's Mycroft going to say when he finds out about this?'_ The DI thinks, rubbing his hand across his face in frustration. Mycroft does have a right to know about what happened to his younger brother- but on the other hand, this event coming into Mycroft's knowledge could signal disastrous consequences for both Sherlock and his work.

After all, Mycroft had made many mistakes that messed Sherlock up in the past.

"Sherlock…" he says quietly, causing the younger man to look up at him fearfully. "We're going to get you to hospital to get checked over…"

"Lestrade… you know what happened." Sherlock replies, trying to sound as detached and aloof as before. Only the faint tremor in his voice and his tear-filled eyes betrays his façade. He pulls his semen-drenched trench coat close to his skinny frame, and starts to rock back and forth, shutting his eyes tightly to process everything.

"I know- but I don't know the full impact of it, physically speaking." Lestrade points out, biting his lip. "Once you've been discharged, I…" he takes a deep breath. God, he doesn't want to do this; but it wasn't right or fair to Sherlock if he wasn't given a chance to recover, "I'm going to take you off cases."

If it had been under much less horrifying circumstances, Sherlock's reaction might have been amusing. As it is, his eyes almost pop out of his head, and he wrap his arms round his skinny frame, as if trying to deflect Lestrade's words away from him.

"Look, it won't be forever, mate," Lestrade replies reassuringly, holding out a hand towards the young consulting detective. "I just don't want you rushing around London with an injury; plus, rapes are very hard to recover from, emotionally and mentally speaking."

"How would you know?" Sneers Sherlock. "It's not happened to you,"

"You are right about that," Lestrade confesses, holding up his hands in surrender. "But listen to me, mate. I'm a member of the Metropolitan Police Force. That means we deal with 92,000 rape cases a year- and that's both men and women in England and Wales alone. I've seen things, I've heard statements, Sherlock, that I have no wish to remember anytime soon; and yet I cannot forget.

Over the cases I have had to deal with, many victims have been psychologically broken; they've been left in fear of their lives and having to pick up the pieces of some monster's sick desires. I can tell you are going to have to face a long road ahead, before you recover."

"Bloody hell…" Sherlock mutters fearfully, before looking up at the inspector. "Lestrade, I see why you're so concerned- but my work keeps me distracted. I cannot live without my work. I need my cases- or else I'll end up on the drugs again."

Realizing that this is the truth, and not exaggeration, Lestrade swears again. He's fine with allowing Sherlock to stay home and recover from the trauma with therapy before coming back out again. However, he is uncooperative and dangerously slippery around medical staff.

And of course, the bloody cocaine… the older man is in no mood to do yet another drugs bust at the consulting detective's flat, but he doesn't fancy leaving Sherlock to overdose on the stuff and die either.

"Lestrade, please, my brain will rot without work!" Sherlock insists, his long, bony fingers clenched in fists on his lap. This was the last straw for the DI.

"Okay!" Lestrade snaps, causing Sherlock to wince. Sighing with guilt, he puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Listen, you're right about your work- you _are_ going to go mental without it. But I'm still worried about your recovery. So, once you've been discharged, I'll take you home. After that, I'll allow you to come to the Yard and work on some cold cases in the office. I know you do complain about them being boring, Sherlock, but"-

Sherlock says nothing, but he nods at Lestrade gratefully- just as a wailing siren approaches the cemetery from outside the crypt.

"Stay here; I'll just be gone a moment." Lestrade says, and he makes his way to the crypt door before Sherlock responds. Pushing the stone door as wide open as he can, he is relieved to see that it is the ambulance, along with an extra police car. He sees the paramedics unload a stretcher from the back, preparing to take Sherlock to the hospital.

He turns back to look at the younger man still sitting uncomfortably on the stone floor.

"It'll be okay one day." He says, attempting to be reassuring and comforting "I've got your back, mate. Always will."

Sherlock just nods once, before allowing his black, unwashed curls to fall over his pale, gaunt face.

Lestrade hopes that he never has to meet Sherlock's rapist on his own- for he was most certain that he would kill her for breaking his friend.

But first, he is going to help Sherlock heal from the trauma, and hopefully, the consulting detective would be able to move on.


End file.
